


Like Angels for Chocolate

by Morningstarofnight



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cooking, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21882694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morningstarofnight/pseuds/Morningstarofnight
Summary: In the heart of winter, Aziraphale insists on baking things the human way.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11
Collections: O Lord Heal This Gift Exchange





	Like Angels for Chocolate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ingthing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingthing/gifts).



> The recipe used in this fic: https://www.allrecipes.com/recipe/269557/chocolate-yule-log/

This was the scene Crowley came home to: the high-tech kitchen covered in a light dusting of powdered sugar, and Aziraphale engaging their wifi-enabled fridge in conversation.

“Please, madam, look up Allrecipes—”

“I have found All Recipes Saved.”

“Oh, well done! I would like to see a recipe for a Yule Log.”

“No recipes found. Would you like to search the internet for a recipe?”

“Madam, you had it on here just a moment ago, I would like it back this instant or I shall have to have words with you.”

Crowley toed on a pair of house slippers—Aziraphale’s rule for the cottage—and snuck up behind the angel, peering over his shoulder at the screen on the fridge door. It was his latest pride and joy, even if Below didn’t understand it. Kitchen implements that judged your diet and kept you under surveillance? Absolutely brilliant, and entirely human. He had, of course, collected the commendation when it arrived. Anything to stay in Hell’s bad graces and under the radar.

“What is all this, angel?”

Aziraphale jumped, and whirled around. Smooth as a snake, Crowley slipped his arm around Aziraphale’s waist, a reassurance that it was just him.

“There’s this dessert I want to try,” he began. “It’s causing me such trouble.”

“So we find a restaurant and try it,” Crowley said. He raised his hand to the powdered sugar mess on the counter. “I’ll just clear this up—”

“ _No!_ ” Aziraphale said. “I want to do this all the human way.”

Ah, so it was going to be one of those afternoons. A bemused smile crossed Crowley’s face. There had been the initial attempt to build a garden shed; the honorary pile of rocks and shingles were still arranged in the garden itself as a sort of modern art centerpiece. Then, Aziraphale decided to start small, with a simple house cleaning. It had gone over fantastically for the house. However, Crowley couldn’t set foot inside for a week without sneezing thanks to all the rosemary.

Aziraphale joined him on the roof those seven nights, and they spent time relearning all the stars they had once walked among and knew by soul through the lens of a telescope and a star chart. The human way.

A few crisp voice commands later, and Crowley restored the recipe Aziraphale had been looking for to the display. They took stock of remaining ingredients, and set to work mixing.

Crowley managed the electric mixer, dumping in the powdered sugar and cocoa, butter, salt, and a rather generous amount of the coffee liqueur.

When he passed it off to Aziraphale after a solid dollop of mascarpone, they both stood over the bowl touching foreheads and breathed in the sugared buttercream smell. Then the angel set it aside and reached for another bowl, stirring up flour into more of the cocoa powder (and if he added a generous amount of the cocoa, Crowley did not mention it).

Then they got to the eggs.

“Place eggs in the clean bowl of your stand mixer,” Crowley read. Aziraphale chewed his lip, looking into the bowl in question. “What, with the shell in? That can’t be right.”

“Dear, I think it means to crack them first. It’s implied.”

“Can’t be. They would have specified.”

“Hm. They didn’t specify what _kind_ of eggs to get, either. I got chicken eggs just because I assumed—but what if they meant duck? Or quail? Oh no.”

“Let’s crack them and save the shells just in case. Alexa—”

“Madam—”

“How do you crack an egg?” they asked at the same time.

Ten eggshells for a five-egg recipe later, Aziraphale and Crowley were beginning to accept that there might have to be a mild amount of crunch in the sponge. Aziraphale dumped in the sugar and took a whisk to it with frightening vigor and a far too literal interpretation of the baking phrase “whip”. Crowley, as a demon, looked on approvingly and added the dry mix and vanilla extract where appropriate.

With the batter baking flat in the oven, Aziraphale turned to Crowley and beamed.

“You know, if this goes well…” Crowley trailed off and gestured to the refrigerator’s sleek, modern design. “Well, let’s just say there’s a simpler way to find recipes. A more bookish way. I _might_ could see about acquiring one such bookish item tomorrow.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up. “It’s the _Christmas_ season, Crowley.”

“It wouldn’t be a _Christmas_ gift,” the demon said hurriedly. “Of course not. Too… _bleh_ …of a connotation, demon like me, gives me the shudders. Tomorrow’s the winter solstice. I figured, well, since you’re making a cake _called_ a Yule Log, I could get you something for…well…Yule.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth.

The oven dinged.

“Oh! This is the fun part!” he declared, opening the door and pulling the tray out with a tea towel.

Crowley said, “It looks cooked?”

Aziraphale made excited shooing motions at him. “Turn around! I want to do this myself, as a surprise.”

“I saw the picture on the recipe page, you realize that?” Crowley said, facing the window to the garden anyway.

“It’s not the same as seeing it handmade in person.”

“Mhm.”

Gentle commotion behind him went on for some time. Crowley observed the garden. He watched a jackdaw land on Aziraphale’s scarecrow and laugh. Some potatoes and lettuce shivered in the wind, growing for their lives in the middle of December because Crowley said so.

After a while, he said, “Is everything all right? This seems to be taking a rather long time.”

“Yes yes, I just took it out of the fridge. It had to sit for a couple hours.”

Crowley nodded absentmindedly, and outside the weak winter sun slipped down into weak sunset. Hell celebrated it as the yearly triumph of darkness. But the other way, the human way, said that the longest night of the year was a time to celebrate darkness being defeated, because never again for a whole year would the night last so long. Life and warmth were due for their return, even in the farthest polar circles where the sun doesn’t rise all winter.

“Look, Crowley!”

He turned. Aziraphale proudly stood over their creation, a slightly squashed, heavily frosted, item that with some imagination looked like a log of wood. The ganache bark was carved with lines and dusted with powdered sugar like a coating of snow, and the inner cake spiraled around and around on itself like tree rings.

Aziraphale cut them a generous slice. Crowley bit into his and immediately complained, “I can’t taste the liqueur.”

Aziraphale sighed around his mouthful and said, “I should have added more chocolate.” And this too was the human way of dissatisfaction. Of the drive to seek further improvement.

“Let’s try something different next time,” Crowley offered. “For now—” and drew his angel in for a kiss.


End file.
